Whenever I tell the story of my return to Ghana almost ten years back, there’s someone who looms large over that tale’s horizon.

During my birth and early upbringing in London, my father was a young management accountant, trying to make things work. He started out with hope and qualifications, but the city would eventually take one of those from him.

Years later, the same thing was happening to me.

It was my father who first advised me that I would remain in a rut until I came home to Ghana. His words carried a lot of weight.

Frustrated with temp work and lack of opportunities, he left London in the late eighties to do a short job for the Bank of Ghana.

After university, I was in a similar predicament. 9/11 happened. The job market shrunk so much I could barely get temp work.

For my father, returning to his motherland would lead to a full time job and promotion after promotion until he was the man signing off on all major foreign transactions in the country. And that’s before he left the Bank to become an IMF representative to countries including Malawi and Ethiopia.

I too started out here with a small opportunity (research intern at ISSER). My father gave me my first management role though. And a car. And a home. Thereafter, I have had an average of one job opportunity thrown my way every year.

History repeats.

Like many people, my father and I have a complicated relationship. We both have faults, misunderstandings and flaws.

Ultimately, we have Love.

I’m grateful to my father for helping me come home.

Deeply.